Page 4 of Marked

Another statistic.

And her daughter would be forever without a mother.

Cole shifted his gun away, and a choked cry escaped Sophia’s lips. Her chin trembled, but she quickly clanked her teeth together—she wouldn’t show this bastard weakness.

He roamed his hand over her jacket, patting her down. His eyes never left her face, his brow a hard, furious line, as if he were pissed about the position she’d put him in.

So why hadn’t he pulled the trigger yet?

He opened her jacket and delved his hand into her inside pocket.

Her heart stopped.

He pulled out her badge and flipped it open. “Detective Sophia Aldridge,” he said.

Panic ricocheted inside her head. She wet her lips and swallowed.

“You know my name. Now I know yours.” His lips twitched, as if he found this comical. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to forget you recognized me. You’re going to say you didn’t catch a damn glimpse of me, and if you do that, you’ll never see me again.”

Bile burned the back of her throat. Every instinct in her bones screamed at her to fight, to knock him on his ass, to steal his gun and shoot him, but dammit, he held the upper hand.

But if he got away, he’d come looking for her.

For Bella.

“And if I don’t?”

The air between them sizzled under his laser-hot gaze. “Then you’ll see me one more time before I cut your fucking throat.”

He closed the flap over her badge and put it back in her pocket. His knuckles brushed her side and her insides jumped.

“Deal?”

She forced a mouthful of heated saliva down her throat. “I don’t make deals with the devil.”

He chortled, the laugh derisive and condescending. “Because your organization is so fucking pure.”

He stood, scooped up his hat, and fit it on his head. “See you around, Detective.” He waltzed up to her gun and booted it, sending the weapon careening over the pavement and well out of her reach.

She sat up and watched his shadowed form stride down the alleyway.

You should have killed me, Cole Holmes. I’ll put you behind bars if it kills me.

CHAPTER 2

Cole threw his hat on the counter. Dragging his hand over his head, he fought the urge to scream or smash something.

A fucking cop.

No, not just a cop. A detective.

He paced the distance of his kitchen then stopped at the cupboard, took down a glass, and filled it with water. He craved something stronger but didn’t want liquor numbing his mind. He had to think. Had to figure out just how fucked he was.

He’d leave the country for a few months. Someone always needed jobs done overseas.

But they’d never stop the hunt. Not now that they had a solid description of his face. Leaving would throw them—her—off his trail for a bit, but as soon as he resurfaced, they’d be right back on him.

Jesus Christ.

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